


Unspoken

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Wedding, Written after The Empty Hearse but before The Sign of Three, wishful canon insertions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten minutes before the wedding ceremony. Sherlock decides he has something to say at the last minute. Just a little pre-wedding drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Unspoken**

 

“So.” John’s voice sounds far off, occupied as Sherlock is in his own thoughts. “This is it, then.”

Sherlock straightens and turns around. John is holding out his arms, obviously waiting for Sherlock to say something, maybe wish him luck. (Boring. Inane. Predictable.) Still: he is expected to say something about now. “John,” he begins. He stops. 

John raises his eyebrows, waiting. The others have gone for some reason that Sherlock cannot possibly be bothered to attempt to fathom. They are alone. The ceremony is to begin in ten minutes. (Come to think of it, it is curious that they are alone, isn’t it? Never mind that. He has something to say, after all, and this little island of time before it all begins is exactly what he was looking for.) “Well?” John prompts. 

Sherlock clears his throat and goes over to stand in front of John – too close; he likes to crowd other people in their personal space. It’s an assertion of dominance, normally. (Not today: this is about something else entirely.) John is used to his proximity, the proximity that breaks the normative lines of social conduct. He has accepted Sherlock and his (methods? style? oddity?) years ago. “I expect that the sort of thing the best man is required to say at this juncture is something along the lines of telling you that the only thing I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy, that I think you will be with Mary, all that,” he says. 

John’s face tightens a bit. (Anticipating difficulty, anticipating that Sherlock is not precisely about to do this.) “And?”

Sherlock takes a deliberate step closer, waits for John to protest. (No protest: good.) “I don’t want to say that. It’s not entirely true,” he says quietly, his voice drifting into the lower register. 

John’s lips tighten just perceptibly. “No?” The tone: meant to sound light but failing utterly. It sounds tense, suppressed anger suddenly palpable.

“No,” Sherlock says. He looks into John’s face, eyes boring into John’s, and waits for the cue, the prompt. 

It comes, exactly as expected. “What did you want to say, then?” John asks, the strain still there in his voice. 

Sherlock moves closer and put his hands on John’s shoulders. “It’s true,” he says, voice just above a whisper now, dark and low. “It’s all true; it’s just not the entire truth. What I want.”

Anyone else would have missed the minuscule signal, ninety-nine percent hidden from sight, the shiver (or shudder?) that skates down John’s spine just then. He seems to be having difficulty breathing. “I don’t know what you’re…”

Sherlock closes the space, his mouth near John’s ear, face hidden. Puts his hands on John’s upper arms, holding him still, fingers framing John’s shoulders, neatly tailored in the morning suit. “What I want is to have you to myself, always. That’s what I want, if you want my honest feeling on the subject.” His lips are nearly touching John’s ear, voice so low it seems to rise from the soles of his shoes. “You, John Watson. I want you. I want no one else to have you.” He pauses, then moves back very slightly. He lets his mouth rest on John’s cheek, lips only just pursed enough to be called a kiss, hardly even touching the warm skin of John’s face, lingering for the length of four normal heart beats (but then, his pulse is racing; a completely inaccurate guide at the moment) before pulling away, eyes sliding over John’s face in apprehension. 

John’s eyes are closed, mouth open, breathing through it. Sherlock can see that his heart rate is elevated from here, and when he opens his eyes there is no mistaking the expression on his face. “You bastard,” he says in what is almost a growl. Sherlock’s hands are still on his arms and John isn’t punching him or wrenching himself out of Sherlock’s grasp. “You utter – ”

(This will certainly be the last opportunity.) Sherlock decides to take it. He swoops in with the speed of a predator and kisses John fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders. There is no moment of hesitation, no shock followed by rejection and ejaculations of horror and apologetic let-down – John’s mouth tightens beneath his as though following a script, memorised ages ago and followed to the tee. After a second or two, his mouth opens to Sherlock’s and his arms circle tightly around Sherlock’s rib cage, as though he knows that there is no time to question this, no time to waste on pointless discussions. Not now. Not when he’s about to walk out into the sanctuary and marry Mary. Later, he can shout at Sherlock for not having said anything sooner, for not having acceded to this three years ago, for waiting until the very last minute. Except it’s not the end: it can’t possibly be, Sherlock thinks as he presses his tongue to John’s: a kiss like this speaks of ownership, of a belonging that has been silently acknowledged from the first. John loves him. And he loves John. Neither of them has ever said, nor will ever say it, but it’s clearly, obviously, entirely true. This will not, cannot end with John’s marriage. This is the answer to the question that Sherlock needed to put to him, should have asked ages ago. It’s as though the marriage exists on a different plane of reality from this one, which is equally or more true. (Levels of truth? No time for metaphysical argument now.) 

When they break apart, John’s eyes stay closed for a moment. He is breathing hard, and so is Sherlock, noting that his heart appears to be attempting to beat its way free of his thoracic cavity. Sherlock cannot decide if he should speak, and if so, what he should say. He feels immensely relieved, in a way. It’s there now: out and acknowledged and confirmed and acted upon. He had no qualms about the truth of John’s feelings but had been far less certain that John would admit them, respond accordingly. But he has, and here they stand: groom and best man, minutes before the wedding. John opens his eyes, which are full of unspoken accusation, but his pupils are dark, his cheeks flushed. “So,” he says. 

Sherlock lifts his shoulders a fraction, the merest suggestion of a shrug. It’s a response that says _Yes, well, what do you want me to do about it now?_ “So,” he says back. (There’s nothing else to say at this point.) 

John licks his lips; nervous gesture, Sherlock knows. “Shall we, then?” John says, clearing his throat. 

Sherlock nods. “It’s time,” he says simply. (Perhaps that’s all that needs to be said.) 

John turns, and Sherlock follows him out into the church.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation to Korean now available here, courtesy of ahimsa: http://blog.naver.com/ahimsa93/120211207896


End file.
